


Colossal Waste Of Time

by churb



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, I D K, and cuddling, basically problem sleuth's creation story?, expect a lot of arty babble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/churb/pseuds/churb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of quite a few things; the creation of Problem Sleuth, the reformation of Caliborn, and the moment that Andrew realised that he wasn't the most important thing in his own life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colossal Waste Of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [artreactor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artreactor/gifts), [enbyblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbyblue/gifts).



> HHHHHS LOUDLY

....Well, it wasn't like anyone else would take him.  
  
And thinking about it, maybe you were the best person to do so. You were the only person that, not only did he treat with something vaguely resembling respect, he also did not try to kill. Mainly because he was convinced he couldn't.  
  
You had also convinced him, on the first day, that you were capable of wiping him out of existence at any moment if you so pleased. He'd whined, and said he didn't believe you, but he did. You could tell. You'd written the damn guy into existence, you knew him like the back of your own hand. (Maybe more, because technically your mom made that.)  
  
So, between those two tidbits of information, he'd got on better with you than you expected. He was still a douchebag, but you expected that. Again, you'd written him like that. But the tantrums were few and far between. Usually if/when you would tell him to do something, the response was a huff and an eyeroll but he did it, at least.  
  
You hadn't had much experience raising kids, but this was a lot easier than you expected. But you assume that that's because the "kid" is actually a homicidal reptile alien thing who lived alone chained to a wall and as such was probably more independent than most prepubescent squirts.  
  
And murderous. Murderous too. But you can deal with that, you suppose.

* * *

He's 16 when you have the talk with him.   
  
(No, not  _that_ talk, you fucking pervert. Dirk had apparently already explained that.)  
  
No, this was a different talk, and a few years after this story started you'd plonked yourself onto the couch next to him and very gently nudged his shoulder.  
  
"I'm going to write another comic."  
  
"Congratulations." He doesn't even look up from whatever he's scribbling. You're quite proud of that. You had been training him, as such, in the art of. Well. Art, you supposed. The only two things he was good at were murdering and drawing, and the latter being far more socially acceptable, you encouraged it as much as possible.  
  
He was doing fairly well, you think. At least he didn't take other people's handicrafts any more.  
  
"Does that mean you'll finally fuck off, and leave me alone. And stop  _bumping_  me."

"No," you say, "Because you're going to be doing it with me."  
  
You loop an affectionate arm around him to punctuate your point (and because you know he doesn't particularly enjoy being touched) and you're met with an incredulous and slightly pissed off look.  
  
"What."  
  
"I said you're going to be doing it with me."  
  
"That's a stupid assumption. And also not true, because. I want nothing to do, with you, or your shitty comics."  
  
You vaguely wonder when he started speaking like his quirk.  
  
(You would also reprimand him for his language, if it wouldn't make you a massive hypocrite.)  
  
"Come on. It'll be fun. Better than whatever lesbian porn you're scribbling there."  
  
You'd meant it as a joke, but the sight of his flushing and quickly covering his page confirms your suspicions and makes you laugh.  
  
"What if I don't want to."  
  
"You will."

* * *

"So when is this fucker going to leave his office."  
  
It's day one of the project, and you've got a fairly good system going. You write, Caliborn draws. You also draw occasionally. But not much. You want to leave that up to him.  
  
"He doesn't." You patiently explain. "The story is about him trying to leave."  
  
"That's dumb." But, you notice, he doesn't stop drawing. You just turn your attention back to how to write this fucking thing. You don't particularly like being spoken to in the middle of drawing either.  
  
"When do the bitches come in."  
  
"There aren't any." There will be females, you decide, but not in the sense that Caliborn would certainly use them for. This comment gets an annoyed huff.  
  
"It's going to suck. You can't have a hero, without multiple floozies clinging to his arm."  
  
"Just shut up and keep drawing."  
  
"Ugh. Fine."

* * *

"You said he wasn't going to leave his office yet."  
  
"I lied."  
  
Caliborn shakes his head, but again, keeps drawing. "This is so stupid. When is stuff going to actually start happening."  
  
It's day three and you really wish he would stop being such an obnoxious little shit.  
  
"Stuff has already started happening. Calm down."  
  
"He just unscrewed his fucking window. This makes no sense. When is  _important shit_ going to happen."  
  
"I told you there weren't any bitches."  
  
The scowl on his face makes you laugh again, and, as a peace offering, you decide to add in some prostitutes.

* * *

"Go to bed."  
  
It's day fivegoingonsix and from what you remember of your childhood, your sixteen year old self was usually asleep before four am.  
  
Most days.  
  
The light of his laptop doesn't provide much light, but from what you can see he looks tired and he hasn't even gotten undressed yet. You cross your arms.  
  
"You told me to draw the damn thing. So that's what I'm doing." His eyes never leave the screen as he says it, and you long for this to be a nineties movie, where you could just lean over and pull a cord and everything would turn itself off.  
  
Sadly, nothing is a nineties movie any more. Also sadly, doing that would mean he didn't get to save his work, and that would just be terrible. You know yourself how complex these panels get.  
  
You lean over and ctrl+s a few times before taking the laptop from him and closing it up. "Go the fuck to  _sleep_."  
  
He looks indignant. "Fuck you!"  
  
"You're not legal enough." You smirk.  
  
"I didn't think you cared about that." His tone is venomous. "You can't really tell with horses."  
  
Oof. Jesus. You narrow your eyes. "So, not only are you accusing me of bestiality, but of paedophilia too? Are you suggesting I fuck child horses, Caliborn? Do you think I have no morals?"  
  
"Yes."   
  
You shrug. "You'd probably be right about that. But I prefer to wait til they're older."  
  
You catch sight of his face, yet again taking on an incredulous/appalled expression, and just manage to contain yourself long enough to leave his room and get to your own before exploding in hysterics.

* * *

"This makes no sense."  
  
"It's not supposed to."

* * *

On the ninth day, you get a tad distracted.  
  
Caliborn, you find, does not take well to criticism. After a while of you watching him draw, and mentioning that maybe that window should be left a bit, and his eye looks odd, and wait is that a gun or a crowbar--  
  
He turns to you and slams down his tablet pen. "Shut the fuck  _up._ "  
  
You shrug. "Hey, I'm just trying to help. I'm just saying it could look a little neater."  
  
"If you don't like it, hire my fucking sister." He turns back and picks up the pen.  
  
"I might."  
  
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. He goes quiet, for a moment, which is kind of worrying, before mumbling "She couldn't do a better job. Don't be stupid."  
  
"She might."  
  
Jesus, Andrew. Does your foot ever leave your mouth.  
  
He puts down his pen again, before exiting the program (without saving, you notice). "Fine." Before you can explain that you were, in fact, joking, he's gotten up and left the room.  
  
So obviously, the only option left is to follow him.  
  
Andrew: ==> Follow angry hormonal cherub boy.  
  
Your escapade takes you to the BATHROOM. You knock on the door with SURPRISING FORCE. "Caliborn, come on."  
  
Why are you narrating this in your head?  
  
"Go away."  
  
"No."  
  
"I said go away."  
  
You lean a little closer to the door and sigh. "I was joking. Calm your non existent tits." Do cherubs even have tits? Fuck if you know. (But you're their god, Andrew. Of course you should know. The anatomical correctness of RoxyUU smut fanfiction is in your hands.)  
  
"Why are you still here."  
  
You stay silent. There are several reasons and you don't feel like listing any of them.

Eventually, after a while, he surprises you and opens the door.  
  
Before he can say anything, you've cut over him. "I was kidding."  
  
He's silent for a while, looking utterly miserable, before he speaks. "Ugh, I don't care. It's a dumb comic anyway. Does it matter who fucks it up more."  
  
You shrug. "You happen to be pretty good at fucking things up,"  
  
You're not entirely sure if that was a compliment, but he actually gives you a smile, and you put your arm around him as you lead him downstairs.  
  
(You understand. You understand completely. It was just that neither of you said any of it out loud.)

* * *

"So he's dead now?"  
  
"If he unplugs the window, yes. But you can go back."  
  
"This is so fucking dumb."

* * *

On day one hundred, he speaks.  
  
"Why am I here."  
  
You look over from the other end of the couch you are comfortably settled on and raise an eyebrow. "Because we're drawing a comic. I didn't think your memory was that shitty."  
  
"No." He looks down, and you can vaguely see a sort of redness to him. "I mean. Why did you."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Did I what."  
  
Another pause.  
  
"...Why am I here."  
  
Suddenly you get it.  
  
"What else were they going to do? Let you die?"  
  
"I thought that was the intention." He suddenly seems very focused on the next panel. You have a look, and vaguely wonder when exactly you decided the mecha was made of candy.  
  
Never mind. It still works.  
  
"They were going to kill Lord English, not you."  
  
"We're the same fucking person, idiot."   
  
You consider this.  
  
"Are you?"

* * *

 

(He wakes up in his bed the next morning and you both pretend that his small but sudden and surprisingly powerful moment of weakness never happened.)  
  
(You were not wrong when you assumed he had psychological problems. Except now you just feel sorry for him.)

* * *

"Why does the pig want melons."  
  
"It'll make sense later."  
  
"No it won't." He looks indignant. "It never makes any fucking sense."  
  
You tell him you prefer it that way.

* * *

On day three hundred and ninety three (technically four, but you hadn't worked on his birthday) Caliborn puts his pen down and slumps against the couch.  
  
"Thank fuck that's over."  
  
It's three am again, except this time, you're not complaining. You've built up quite the fanbase. It needed to be done.  
  
(It's the thirteenth soon, you realise. Of April. That's always been a special day.)  
  
"How long did it even take?"  
  
You think for a moment before responding. "A year? Like, a year and a month or something."  
  
He doesn't respond to that. You pause, before speaking again.  
  
"So now that you have gotten involved with me and my shitty comics, do you think it was worth it?"  
  
You simply get a snore in response.  
  
With a small huff, you pull yourself to your feet, arranging Caliborn over your shoulder to transport him to his room. Forget Lord Of Time, his new god tier is Sack Of Potatoes.  
  
You like that. It sounds less British.  
  
(Keeping him away from any English influence is probably a good idea.)  
  
(PUNPUNPUNPUNPUNPUNPUNPUNPUN.)  
  
(You are so fucking funny.)  



End file.
